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“A Portkey made of solid gold, Ginevra?” the young man says with a condescending smirk. “Is that some sort of strange Gryffindor symbolism, or is the Order trying to impress me with its wealth?”
She meets his gaze head-on. “No actually, Tom, it was Harry’s idea. He was under the impression a sterling silver one might have been dangerous to use for—”
“A werewolf?” he offers, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
Ginny blinks.
“Oh dear, oh dear.” He shakes his head. “Rather than standing around aimlessly with his mouth hanging open and saying ’er’ every other minute, perhaps your friend Potter should have done his homework. Vampires, as anyone with even an ounce of general knowledge will tell you, aren’t affected by silver in the slightest—or by garlic for that matter, now that we’re on the subject. All such claims are merely old wives’ tales. So if your bumbling brother could refrain from spreading that infernal stench every time he gets the urge to check up on me, that would be greatly appreciated. I suspect even the rats are appalled.”
Ginny grits her teeth. If only there was a third party she could blame for this ugly mess, but it has all been her own doing.
When the destruction of that tiara spawned a young Tom Riddle—he must be about twenty, she thinks—she should have notified the others straight away, instead of leaving him behind in that cottage where he was inadvertently discovered and subsequently attacked by a group of hungry vampires whose lair had been destroyed in an ill-advised Ministry raid.
He’s lucky to have survived—well, in a fashion, but she has a strong suspicion that in this form he also possesses the potential to become even more dangerous than the current Voldemort is.
Before she can get too wrapped up in that line of thinking, she quickly changes the subject. “Um, how are you planning to”—‘Feed’ sounds like a bizarre term and furthermore, it fills her with all sorts of gory mental images she’d rather not contemplate; catching a glimpse of those sharp fangs every time he opens his mouth is already bad enough—“sustain yourself?”
“Well, Hermione Granger, who thankfully has been useful so far, even if she is a Mud—pardon me: a Muggleborn, told me about something interesting most Muggle hospitals have. Blood banks.”
Ginny frowns. She has never heard anything like that mentioned before, but even with her dad’s fascination for all things Muggle, many aspects of the non-magical society still remain a complete mystery to her.
“So,” he continues, clearly on a roll, “at least I won’t have to resort to biting the heads off rodents in order to stay alive”—he grins, flashing those horrible fangs again—“or undead, as the case may be.”
“Er, no,” she replies, overcome with trepidation. Something about the look in his dark eyes sends an icy shiver up and down her spine. His gaze was piercing before; now it’s downright chilling.
“Of course,” he says matter-of-factly, “I could also bite you. You do realise that if I drink your blood and decide not to kill you, you’ll be mine forever? I believe the correct term is ‘childe’; not to be confused with offspring.”
Ginny blinks. She has to leave. Now. He has clearly gone mad, or turned feral, or-or… something.
“Wouldn’t that be amusing, little girl, being bound to me for all eternity?” He laughs then; actually laughs. The sound bounces off the bleak walls surrounding them.
Flabbergasted and terrified, Ginny blurts out, “I’m already yours. I’ve been yours ever since your diary—“
She clamps a hand over her mouth. She has probably revealed too much. He mustn’t learn—not now, not ever—of the real reason why she hid him, why she wanted to keep him safe and keep him, full stop.
He was the first boy she ever cared for and the only man who ever made her feel truly special.
She shakes her head and quickly takes her leave, bolting up the spiral staircase, slamming every door behind her, hoping the locks will hold and she won't have to come down there ever again.
She never notices how Tom’s expression shifts from baffled to devious, and she has temporarily forgotten all about the Portkey she handed over to him in case Death Eaters were to attack.
In the morning, she'll remember.
By then it will already be too late.